


like petals in a storm

by julek



Series: and light was laughter [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, Introspection, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Slice of Life, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julek/pseuds/julek
Summary: “Earlier, I was thinking of how much Kaer Morhen means to you all.” He tucks a strand behind Geralt’s ear. “How this is your home, even if only for a season— it’s where you come to rest when your bones are tired and your heart is heavy.”“I think that’s too poetic for us.”Jaskier snorts. “You know what I mean, though.” Geralt nods. “I’ve never— I’ve never had that. I’m not having a pity party about it either, it’s just… I’ve never found a place that made me feel at home. I think this— I think Kaer Morhen’s the closest thing I have to it.”Or, being at Kaer Morhen for the winter brings Jaskier to realize a few things.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: and light was laughter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193375
Comments: 39
Kudos: 310
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	like petals in a storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahh_fuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahh_fuck/gifts).



Every winter Jaskier got to spend at Kaer Morhen was a gift.

Every year, as autumn closed in and the days got shorter and the nights longer and colder, Geralt’s eyes turned soft around the edges, amber melting into honey as he watched Jaskier gather every single coin into his pouch after a performance, waiting until they made it to Ard Carraigh, where he’d stock up in warm clothes and fur blankets for the oncoming weather. Jaskier had become a regular customer at the shop, and each year Edvard, the shopkeeper, greeted him with open arms and the warmest of woolen cloaks, just for him. All along the way, getting deeper and deeper into Kaedwen, they visited Geralt’s regular shops, slowly filling up their cart with supplies and preserves and buying a horse for Jaskier at their last stop, the tradesman being the last familiar face they’d see for the two weeks it took to make their way up the Killer.

Jaskier knew Geralt grew restless the closest they got to the keep, recognized the glint in his eyes whenever they settled in for the night, looking up at the night sky under the shelter of the forest trees. He could tell going home to Kaer Morhen left a bittersweet taste in Geralt’s mouth; the prospect of finally being safe and comfortable in a familiar place permanently paired with the heartbreaking realization that maybe his brothers wouldn’t make it up the mountain this year. The tension in his shoulders and jaw only dissipated when the Witcher wrapped his arms around Lambert and pressed his forehead against Eskel’s, drinking them in, assured that they’d survived, at least for another year, which was more than he could hope for himself.

It seemed like he’d reflected on his own life, as well — Geralt was trying to take better care of himself during hunts. He’d stopped going in for the killing blows that looked spectacular but left his sides wounded and his breathing ragged, had stopped taking on more contracts than he could handle, and had finally, slowly given into being cared for. He’d given up on trying to push Jaskier’s delicacies away, had given into the soft touches and gentle words murmured against his battered skin, slow kisses being pressed against his numb bones, bringing them back to life. Geralt no longer turned his head at Jaskier when he suggested they stayed a bit longer at an inn, long enough to visit a healer, to allow himself to rest. He’d mellowed, just the smallest bit, even if he would never admit it.

Now, as they walk across the small stone bridge over the Gwenllech, the gates of Kaer Morhen coming into view, Jaskier feels warmth bloom deep in his chest. For years he’d longed to spend winter with Geralt in the fortress he knew so little about, only hearing passing rumors about the keep and the mythical Witchers that inhabited it. He’d wanted to see it firsthand, to run his fingers through the crumbling walls and breathe in the chilly air that wafted through the halls — to curl up in front of the fire, listening to ancient tales of monsters and adventure. And he got to — after many winters spent in the warmth of his rooms in Oxenfurt, Geralt had whispered to him one night, their limbs entwined under the covers, just how much it would mean to him if Jaskier chose to spend his winter with the Witcher and his brothers. He got to eat Vesemir’s delectable roasts and clash his tankard against Lambert and Eskel’s, to spend nights in a pile of furs and blankets in front of the hearth as shots of White Gull loosened the Witchers’ tongues. Geralt opened the door to his home to Jaskier, and the act alone carried so much feeling in it, Jaskier had known the moment he first walked through the main gates that Kaer Morhen would burrow itself deep inside his heart.

“Geralt!”

Eskel shoulders past Lambert, who’s standing by the open doors with an annoyed frown on his face, and opens his arms to wrap Geralt in a bone-crushing embrace. Jaskier smiles softly and shakes his head as he waits for his turn. He feels weariness tugging at his bones and marvels at the fact that he’s still standing upright when the prospect of a warm bed is so close and calling to him, the smell of something cooking beckoning him in.

“Bard,” Eskel says, his tone serious and polite, then breaks into a grin, pulling him in for a hug. “How was the trip?”

“Long,” Jaskier mumbles against Eskel’s cloak. “But,” he adds with a triumphant smile as he pulls back, “I didn’t freeze to death!”

Eskel smiles. “That’s good.”

After greeting Lambert and Vesemir, one with good-natured sarcasm and the other with a respectful handshake, Jaskier follows Geralt and Roach into the stables. They’ve reached the keep earlier this year, as Geralt didn’t want to risk the weather being too harsh on Jaskier and wearing him down too quickly, so the courtyards are still clean, no snow covering the ground. The evergreen trees tower around them, the peaks of the Blue Mountains imposing, as impassive as ever in the background, and no matter how many times Jaskier’s seen the scenery, it still manages to take his breath away. It’s all so vast and incredibly lonely, but not in the way that would make a human recoil, instead, it feels right — the stillness that envelops the keep feels comforting and forgiving, and that sense of tranquility manages to seep into Jaskier’s veins, to wash over him almost instantly.

“Hey,” Geralt murmurs, his voice soft only for his mare, gently stroking her neck. “We’re home.”

Roach bumps her muzzle against his chest affectionately and stomps her feet onto the hay-covered ground. The trek up the mountain is hard on her, Jaskier knows, especially with the way the path narrows and gets more and more dangerous the higher they climb. She’s resilient, but Geralt doesn’t take her on rides around the keep until he’s certain she’s well-rested and well-fed, which includes Jaskier occasionally slipping sugar cubes into her mouth when the Witcher isn’t looking.

Geralt grabs their packs from her saddlebags, and Jaskier dusts his fingertips along her crest. “Goodbye, girl. You did a good job.” She snorts. “I know, I know— I’ll be back later with your payment,” he whispers.

When he turns around, Geralt’s looking at them with a fond expression melting his amber gaze. “Stop spoiling her,” he warns, but his voice is soft around the edges. “Let’s go inside.”

Jaskier nods and follows him into the keep.

§

After taking a well-deserved nap, Jaskier makes his way through the halls and walks into the kitchen, where the hearth’s contentedly rumbling, its warmth a silent invitation to join the wolves already sitting at the table. He’s bundled up —knows better than to wear one of his flamboyant but thin doublets, after that first year when he didn’t stop shivering until Vesemir threw one unimpressed look and a fur blanket his way— and his fur cloak drags across the stone floor. He sits cross-legged on a bench next to Geralt, where he and Lambert are intently playing a round of Gwent. Eskel and Vesemir are holding a lighthearted conversation as they chop vegetables on the counter, something about the weather, the horses, and the next big hunt they’re planning.

Jaskier lets his mind wander as he sits in the heart of the keep — the metaphorical one, his brain supplies, as Geralt’s already told him the _actual_ heart of the keep lies in one of the basements, which is underwhelming in its practicality. No, a kitchen is much more romantic, more intimate in an indescribable way — it’s a place of work and nourishment, but it’s also more than that. It’s where the important conversations take place, where the wolves let their armors slip from their shoulders and where they sit to feel like boys again, laughing until tears are rolling down their cheeks and their hearts are full of that companionship Jaskier knows they can only find in each other. He lets out a small, contented sigh as he takes it all in; the quiet glide of Eskel’s knife against the chopping board, Vesemir’s profile illuminated by the firelight, the sharp slope of his nose almost set in stone. Geralt’s smirking while stealing a glance at his cards, which can only mean trouble, as Lambert brags about his amazing luck, eyes glinting in anticipation.

His eyes fill with tears, the way they often do when he’s overwhelmed by his emotions; this time, they’re tears of enormous joy, of feeling so comfortable and warm and at home that his heart needs to find somewhere to release such delight. He wipes at his eyes with his sleeve and Geralt turns to look at him, a question set in the pinch of his brow.

“Happy tears,” he mouths, and rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder. He can feel the wolves’ eyes on him, worried but cautious, and then Lambert breaks the silence.

“That’s cheating!” He gestures at Jaskier, who’s distractedly peeking at Geralt’s cards. “You can’t have your bard helping you.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “Believe me, he’s definitely not helping.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says, placing an indignant hand over his chest in mock outrage, “my mere presence is the reason you’re doing so well at this, this— this nonsensical game. You should be thanking me. My moral support does wonders.”

“Hmm.”

“Ingrate!” Jaskier gets up with a huff, and joins Vesemir and Eskel at the counter. “Someone should teach that one some manners.”

Vesemir stares at him, a blank look on his face. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Eskel snorts beside him, his eyes never straying from the carrot on his chopping board, where perfect little squares are piling up. There’s a hint of domesticity to it all, the friendly teasing and routine, the way Jaskier leans back against the counter and steals some baby carrots when Eskel isn’t looking, how Vesemir makes the others put their cards away and set the table at once, and suddenly Geralt and Lambert turn eleven again, making faces behind the older Witcher’s back.

Dinner is a loud affair up until they all fall silent when Lambert announces he’s telling the story of the most difficult contract he’d dealt with within the year, and Eskel and Geralt roll their eyes in turn, already aware of the embellishments Lambert will undoubtedly weave into his story. Vesemir watches them from his seat, seemingly unfazed, but Jaskier can see the way he hides a smile behind his tankard.

“Anyway, it had all started when this poor farmer came up to me in some backwater village in the middle of nowhere. There’d been no contracts or notice boards, so I was about to ride out when I heard him call my name.”

“Bullshit— how would he know your name?” Geralt interrupts, frowning.

Lambert ignores him. “Some people in the village had gone missing, he’d said, and then some animals had started disappearing, as well. He didn’t know what could have caused it, but I, being the meticulous Witcher I am—”

“Smartass is the word you’re looking for.”

“—I had already picked up some clues. The village had been ravished by a battle a few months before, and there were ruins everywhere, even the tavern I visited had a few bricks missing.” He sipped at his ale. “And the way there were no bodies to be found, I already had a feeling it was something big.”

Jaskier’s eyes grow wide. “What was it?”

“Patience, bard. Now, I had followed some tracks up a hill, and they were unusual, maybe three, three-and-a-half inches? They had these weird spikes—”

“Get on with it,” Eskel groans.

“— _Anyway_ , skipping right to the interesting part, because these idiots wouldn’t know good storytelling if it bit them in the ass, right, bard? So, there I was,” Lambert says, pausing for some sips of ale and the dramatic effect, “the cockatrice had pinned me down to the ground, and my sword had been chucked somewhere into the gutter, and all I could think was _Aiden’s never gonna let me live this down_ —”

“Who’s Aiden?”

“—so, ‘cause I have more than half a brain, I took the last of my Swallow, sent it flying off with Aard and retrieved my sword, all in like, three seconds, and then I went in for the killing blow behind its back, right in the middle of its wings.”

Lambert sits back in his chair, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he drinks the last of his ale. Eskel scoffs next to him. “You’re just bribing Jaskier with fake stories so he’ll write a song about you.”

And true enough, Jaskier’s fingers itch for a notebook and some ink, already trying out some rhymes in his head, veracity be damned — the composer in his heart can clearly see Lambert as the hero in the story, relieving the poor townsfolk from the monster that stole their sons and daughters and livestock, bringing back the peace and quiet even if he can’t return what the vile creature so nefariously claimed as its own. He’s done so for Geralt countless times, and if songs are what Lambert’s after, songs he will get.

“There’s a dangerous glint to your eyes, bard,” Vesemir rumbles, slightly narrowing his eyes. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“That’s his composing face,” Geralt says, and then he turns to Lambert. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Lambert clicks his tongue. “I’ve nothing to worry about, pretty boy. Jaskier here is gonna make me look good— right, Jaskier?”

“Hmm?” Jaskier snaps out of his trance, and starts humming under his breath as he drums his fingers on the table. “Sure! For sure, yeah— Aiden, was it? I could find some way to fit him in there somewhere...” He stands up abruptly and wanders off to the library, intent on finding any scrap of parchment he can spill his thoughts onto.

He can feel Lambert following him, his heavy footsteps echoing through the hall. “That’s— that’s not what this was about! Did you listen to the story at all—”

Jaskier turns to face him and laughs, then shuts the library door in his face.

“Careful, bard!” Lambert screams through the door, pounding on it with his fist. “That ballad better not— uh, you… just watch out!”

He hears Lambert’s angry footsteps fall away as he settles on a chair by the spacious oak table in the middle of the room. It’s, as always, full of things Jaskier would dare call trinkets in the privacy of his mind; open books, their yellow pages bearing annotations almost on every line, and various tools Jaskier doesn’t recognize. He gently pushes a bestiary that’s been left showing, coincidentally, the picture of a cockatrice, some information on the creature below.

“That’s very convenient,” he whispers to himself as he moves around looking for a pen or a quill, parchment already spread before him. When he finds it, he scribbles down on the paper almost furiously, not stopping for a moment lest his thoughts stray away, leaving him with half a ballad in one hand and niggling frustration in the other.

When he’s done spilling words onto the parchment, he sits back and admires his work. He’s always been messy — there are hundreds of misspellings and incongruencies, he’s sure, big drops of ink adorning the tale he’s drafted, something about monsters and potions and a shoulder to lean on. He’ll have to revise it later, when his thoughts align and allow him to glimpse something clearer, with a gentle melody playing in the background, but for now, he reckons it’s enough.

The wolves are still sitting at the dinner table, if the raucous laughter and clink of glasses are anything to go by. It seems Lambert’s telling yet another story, and Jaskier smiles fondly at the thought. Something in his heart murmurs contentedly, and he thinks of the way Geralt had hugged his brothers tightly as they walked into the keep — how the tension stretched taut over his forehead and shoulders seemed to dissipate at the mere graze of familiar arms beckoning him close.

It’s something Jaskier’s never had — a place to call home, where his worries could be kept at bay and an understanding hand would be placed on his shoulder whenever he let his mind eat away at him. His family had always been kind to him, taking care of his needs and wants deliberately, but it had always had that aftertaste nobility often left burning in the back of his throat; his parents had always cared for him, he knew, but they expressed their affections through frivolous affairs, the finest education the Continent could offer, the most refined meals and wines at his disposal, even when all he asked for was the comfort of one of his mother’s hugs, the compassion in his father’s eyes. He didn’t fault them, though — he knew he was tough to love, to understand; he’d been glad when Oxenfurt was presented to him as a way out, the excuse of mastering the Seven Liberal Arts masking the true meaning of his parents’ intentions: keeping him at a comfortable distance, where they wouldn’t feel compelled to care for him in ways that money couldn’t buy.

He’d always wanted somewhere to go home to, somewhere to feel warm and welcome without pretense. Kaer Morhen had that familiarity to it, that nurturing feeling encased within its worn stone walls, but it still wasn’t his to keep. The Continent had always been an understanding friend to him, the empty roads under the open skies drawing him in through the seasons, providing shelter and companionship, but never enough for him to stay permanently. He longed for that primal sense of belonging, the way Geralt did to his pack.

As he trails his hands down the cracked spines of the books fitted into their shelves, he realizes, quite belatedly, that the urge to settle down has finally breached him. He thinks of a house by the coast, down where the streets are quiet and the flowers bloom in early spring, framing the sea in all their colors. He thinks of a big bedroom with bay windows that overlook that endless blue, and suddenly he can see Geralt standing in the middle of them, his hair unruly and mussed with sleep, only a thin sheet covering his scarred body. He can picture the two of them having breakfast in the kitchen —toast with honey and fruit and herbal tea, Geralt’s favorite— and then sharing a chaste kiss by the doorway, Geralt leaving to find a contract, never too far from their house, so he can always return by nightfall, to sleep with a happy stomach in a warm bed, their limbs entwined under the covers.

The thought lingers in his mind as he tucks the piece of parchment into his pocket, blowing out the last candle in the library and closing the door behind him.

Later that night, when the wolves have turned in for the night and Jaskier finds himself with Geralt’s head in his lap, running his fingers through his hair, he knows the idea has made itself at home in his heart. Geralt notices, too.

“You’re miles away,” he says softly, looking up at Jaskier with a clear gaze.

Jaskier smiles. “I am.”

Geralt lifts his arm and finds Jaskier’s cheek, stroking lightly with the back of his hand. “What are you thinking of?”

“The future, I think. Our future.”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

“Earlier, I was thinking of how much Kaer Morhen means to you all.” He tucks a strand behind Geralt’s ear. “How this is your home, even if only for a season— it’s where you come to rest when your bones are tired and your heart is heavy.”

“I think that’s too poetic for us.”

Jaskier snorts. “You know what I mean, though.” Geralt nods. “I’ve never— I’ve never had that. I’m not having a pity party about it either, it’s just… I’ve never found a place that made me feel at home. I think this— I think Kaer Morhen’s the closest thing I have to it.”

Jaskier carefully watches Geralt’s face, feeling ashamed of his confession, but finds nothing but love and understanding in his amber eyes, so he continues.

“But this is yours— it belongs to you and the ones that came before, and I couldn’t intrude, make a home out of it when I know what it represents to all of you. It’s your place to come home to.”

A beat passes, the fire popping in the hearth. The rise and fall of Geralt’s chest makes the light catch on his medallion, and Jaskier tries to focus on it and not the wild beating of his own heart.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, bringing his attention to him. “Tell me.”

“I think I want to settle down,” he murmurs, not meeting Geralt’s eyes. “You know me— always itching to get to the next city, cover as much ground as I can… I thought I’d always be happy jumping from town to town and following you, and I am, love, I am, but— I want more.”

Geralt rises slowly and sits cross-legged on the bed, facing Jaskier. He doesn’t look disappointed, but the lines of his face frame the curious gaze he’s wearing, and it looks like he’s trying hard to be gentle. He takes Jaskier’s hand in his, pressing their palms together.

“What do you want?” He asks, his voice soft.

Jaskier breathes in and closes his eyes. “I want us to have somewhere to go when we’re weary, when life feels like too much, and inns are too small for us. When you take on too many contracts at once and your body takes too many hits. When I’m distraught and need to occupy my hands with something that isn’t my lute, I— I want for us to have a place that belongs to us, somewhere we can go home to, together.”

“A home,” Geralt echoes.

“Yes,” Jaskier says, finally meeting his eyes, and Geralt squeezes his hand. “Where we can have a big bed just for us and a bathtub and I can have an office to fill with books and songs, and maybe a stable for Roach to sleep in, with a spacious yard for her to munch on some grass and you to train in, and some guest bedrooms for your brothers to come in the summer, and—”

He’s cut off by Geralt pressing a kiss to his mouth, and there’s nothing he can do except melt into it, their slightly chapped lips meeting almost lazily.

“What?” Jaskier prompts when they pull back.

“I love you,” Geralt says, a smile threatening to break loose. “I love that you’re thinking of your future, and that you want me in it.”

“Of course I do,” Jaskier says, gently knocking their foreheads together. “Of course I want you by my side. I want to grow old with you.”

“In a house by the coast?”

“I never mentioned the coast, but I’m glad we’re on the same wavelength,” Jaskier grins. “It doesn’t have to be permanent, though— we can still fight monsters in every corner of the Continent, if that’s what you want.”

Geralt’s smile grows teasing. “We? Last I checked, you didn’t carry any swords on your back.”

Jaskier groans, then shoves at Geralt’s chest. “Fine, fine— _you_ can fight monsters while I scream bloody murder from a safe distance, preferably on a tree, so I can sing your praises after.”

“Hmm.”

“But really, Geralt?” Jaskier says, hesitant. “You want that?”

Geralt places his free hand on Jaskier’s freckled shoulder, rubbing small circles on the skin. “I do,” he says, and Jaskier knows he means it.

Jaskier huffs a laugh, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s collarbones. “I’m glad.”

“I do,” Geralt repeats, and Jaskier pulls back to look at his face, “because I want to give you a home— because you want to have me in it.”

Tears prickle at the corners of Jaskier’s eyes, but he doesn’t move to wipe them.

“And,” Geralt continues, “I want to keep you by my side, as long as you’ll have me.”

Jaskier captures his lips in a kiss, their teeth clashing messily and the taste of salt on their tongues, Jaskier’s tears falling down his cheeks.

“Forevermore,” Jaskier murmurs against Geralt’s lips. “Evermore.”

§

Winter comes at its usual unhurried pace, the first snows falling graciously on the courtyards, making it difficult for the Witchers to train outside as often as they’d like to, which means they take to their household chores diligently.

Jaskier helps around too — he’d been adamant from the beginning that, even if Vesemir didn’t expect him to repair roofs and fix the holes in the mortar, he’d do his best to earn his keep. He’s mainly in charge of preparing meals for them all —his own, very fancy mise en place, just like he’d learned from the cooks in Touissant— and helping Vesemir rearrange the library to its fair order. He and Geralt rise early, though he manages to keep the Witcher in their bed for a couple of minutes before he gets dressed, simply feeling his skin against his own. Then, they head to the kitchen for breakfast before moving along to their respective responsibilities — Geralt to the freezing rooftops, and Jaskier flitting between the pantry and the kitchen.

In the afternoons, when all of the vegetables have been washed and chopped, Jaskier heads to the library with Vesemir. Together they dust off impressive tomes, more often than not falling into heated conversations that challenge Jaskier’s knowledge in the Continent’s history. When Vesemir retires to prepare dinner, Jaskier lingers by the windows, his lute in his lap, and lets his mind wander. It’s a nice routine he’s found himself in, waking with the first rays of sunlight filtering through the windows and Geralt lightly snoring by his side, the faint ache in his bones from the cold and long days of work — he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He’s got time to think about his plans, too. Every morning, as he walks into every room to check that every fire is well-lit, he finds himself making adjustments to their still imaginary house, thinking about the color of the walls and the kind of wine they’ll stock, and whether it’ll be too cold in the evening to sit outside and watch the sea. At night, he dreams of pink skies and gentle breezes, a weeping willow and a pond with multicolored fish swimming around, the sound of steel against a whetstone in the background. He dreams of wooden floors and lazy mornings in bed, of homecooked meals, and a living room full of laughter and warmth and love. He wants it all.

So he writes — hesitant drafts at first that soon turn into articulate letters, addressed to the Viscount of Lettenhove. He’s not written in years, he knows, nothing more than a passing note with beautifully crafted lies to let his parents know he’s alive and well, still traveling the Continent as a bard, nothing more than that — never once addressing his real worries and thoughts, the ones he’s managed to contain for the sake of his parents. This time, though, his letter is as crystalline as the frozen waters of the Gwenllech, honesty bleeding through the pages. He’s decided to settle down, he tells him; he has found the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and even though they’ll probably never meet, he wants his father to know he’s happy, the happiest he’s ever been. He knows he doesn’t need his father’s blessing to move on, but it settles a calm over his nerves and his heart to know that his parents will know, will be able to reach out if they ever wish to.

On a particularly rainy afternoon, when he’s done copying the contents of the letter onto finer paper, he runs into Eskel as he walks out of the library.

“Hey,” Eskel greets him with a smile. “Haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“What can I say?” Jaskier gives him a sheepish grin. “Inspiration struck.”

“Well, I hope to hear it soon, then.” They move down the hallway and into the living room, where Lambert’s stoking the fire. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Eskel turns to him, “Do you have any mail? Vesemir and I are arranging to send some, if you want to join in.”

Jaskier feels the letter burn in his pocket, and fiddles with a loose thread on his sleeve. “I do, actually.”

Eskel’s gaze is curious as he purses his lips. “Okay, you can leave it on the table tonight, so I don’t forget.” He leans closer. “Is everything okay?”

For a split second, Jaskier wants to sit down with him and tell him everything —his hopes and dreams, the way he’s bubbling with excitement to share their plans with everyone— but something stops him. Instead, Jaskier gives him a small smile. “Everything is fine, dear. Thank you.”

Eskel nods, and disappears into the kitchen.

§

“I can’t believe we’re leaving tomorrow,” Jaskier murmurs against Geralt’s chest.

They’re laying on Geralt’s bed under a hedonistic amount of blankets, though the Witcher runs hot and, to Jaskier’s dismay, kicks them all off in the middle of the night. Geralt’s fingers are lazily tracing Jaskier’s spine, his flesh rising from both the cold and the soft caress.

“I thought you’d be excited to,” Geralt rumbles. Jaskier lifts his head to meet his eyes. “So we can… go home.”

His voice goes soft and falls to a whisper at that last part, and Jaskier still revels in hearing that word leave Geralt’s mouth, no matter how many times they’ve discussed it — how many nights they’ve spent tossing and turning that little idea in their mind’s eye, picking it apart and pulling it back together. There’s still something niggling at the back of Jaskier’s mind, something telling him that Geralt doesn’t want this, not really, and has only agreed to it in order to appease him, but hearing him mention their future with such fondness makes his heart flutter with anticipation.

“I am, I can’t wait for us to head south and see what’s out there, waiting for us,” Jaskier says dreamily. “It still makes me sad to leave Kaer Morhen— you know I’m a romantic at heart, Geralt. Winter is always over too soon. I’ll miss the fine company of Vesemir and your brothers.”

Geralt huffs a laugh and tightens his arms around the bard’s waist. “Guess you’ll be stuck with the fine company that is me.”

“Hmm. I may have not thought this through.”

“Having second thoughts, bard?”

Jaskier bites his lower lip. “Is it too late to ask Eskel to elope? I think he’ll make for much more sensible company than—”

He’s cut off by Geralt pouncing on him, his hands tickling at Jaskier’s sides with fierce intent.

“Stop, you monster! I surrender, I— I surrender!” Jaskier lifts his hands in defeat, Geralt’s fingers still dangerously perched on his stomach, kneading the soft skin. “I’m staying with you, you insufferable man, but only because you make a most compelling argument.”

“Hmm. Good.” Geralt presses a kiss to his temple and lays back down. “I’m sad to leave, too. It’s been a good winter.”

“It really has.”

“But I feel…” Geralt presses his lips together, and Jaskier knows he’s trying to find his words. He lets him. “Restless. Uh— excited, too.”

Jaskier can’t help the huge smile that spreads across his lips, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner with instant joy. He holds Geralt closer still, the hand that was resting on his chest now playing with the chain of his medallion.

“I am, too,” he says, and presses his cold feet to Geralt’s calves, laughing when the Witcher buries his face in the crook of his neck and groans.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, Geralt taking care of gathering supplies for the trek back down the mountain while Jaskier packs their belongings and cleans their room. He and Vesemir prepare the last meal of winter, roasted venison with a creamy sauce, the same one they’d shared on their first night at the keep. It’s sentimental and Jaskier loves it, lets the melancholy wash over him as he takes his last stroll around the fortress, his fur cloak hung over his shoulders, and a mug of steaming tea in his hands.

He roams the empty halls and stairways until he finds the door to the courtyards. The snow has cleared now, leaving only a thin sheet of pure white covering the ground. He walks by the stables and bids farewell to the horses, Scorpion and Lambert’s uncharacteristically chipper stallion Shadow, grabbing some apples from a nearby sack and sneaking them into their mouths. He gently presses his forehead against Roach’s muzzle, promising to come back in the morning with treats.

By the time he goes inside, the wolves are already sitting at the table, Vesemir setting the roast down.

“Having a last look around, bard?” Eskel prompts.

Jaskier takes a seat next to Geralt, a smile curving his lips when the Witcher’s hand gives his waist a light squeeze.

“I was,” Jaskier says and helps himself to some roasted potatoes. “Have to make sure everything stays standing while I’m gone.”

Lambert snorts. “Don’t let Vesemir hear you, otherwise you’ll get more than kitchen duty next winter.”

“Hmm,” Vesemir agrees.

“About next winter,” Jaskier starts, hoping his voice sounds nonchalant and not as eager as he feels, and shoots a look at Geralt, silently looking for his approval — he nods. Eskel lifts an eyebrow, and Lambert sets his fork down. “Geralt and I have been talking.”

“Oh, trust me, we know,” Lambert says, “and if that’s Geralt’s idea of dirty talk, bard, I truly feel your sorrow. I’ve got some pointers if you—”

“Lambert,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier shakes his head, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. “That is _not_ what I was aiming for, Lambert, but thank you, anyway. No, uh, actually— we’re thinking of, um, settling down, somewhere?”

Both of Eskel’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise now, and everything is so still for a moment that Jaskier thinks he must have misspoken — then he feels Geralt’s hand on his, and his clear voice breaks the silence.

“Witchers don’t retire,” Geralt says in the quietness of the room. “Our lives belong out there on the Path, with no possessions other than a horse and our potions. We’re not supposed to have companions. But,” he murmurs, looking at their joined hands on top of the wooden table, “after so many years of resignation, of telling myself that was just the way things would be, Jaskier found me.”

Jaskier looks over at him, his breaths unsteady with trepidation and hope and love, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest.

“And I found all the things I thought I’d never have— never deserve, in him,” Geralt says to no one in particular, his gaze still fixed on the table. His fingers brush against Jaskier’s knuckles, over and over again. “The Path had been dark and lonely for so long, but now... It isn’t, anymore.”

Finally, he looks up, his amber gaze so open and vulnerable like Jaskier’s never seen it. “We’ll find somewhere in the south. I’ll still take contracts, and Jaskier— he’ll still teach in Oxenfurt and sing in taverns.”

“But we’ll have somewhere to go to rest our bodies and our minds,” Jaskier finishes, his voice low with raw emotion. “And then we’ll do it all over again.”

Jaskier looks around the table, taking the scene in. Vesemir has leaned back on his chair, and he’s far away, lost in his own thoughts, though he seems to be listening to every word. Lambert’s sipping at his tankard, drinking both the ale and the confession in. It feels intimate and extremely vulnerable, the way they sit in the fire-lit room, wrapped in their lightest furs and the emotion that spills from Geralt’s mouth.

“You’ll invite us, I presume?” Eskel teases, a small smile curving the scar on his face.

Jaskier lets out a small laugh, relieved. “Of course.”

“Then I’m good. But really,” Eskel says, his voice turning soft, “I’m happy for you, Geralt.”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier squeezes his hand.

“Took you long enough,” Lambert grumbles, and raises his tankard at them. His tone is teasing, but the way the lines around his face blur into a fond smile tells Jaskier enough.

Vesemir clears his throat. “We’ve discussed this many times, Geralt,” he rumbles, and Jaskier’s heart stops beating for a second, but Geralt nods in understanding. “So all that’s left to say is how glad I am for the both of you. Where will you be heading?”

Jaskier looks at Geralt, then into Vesemir’s expectant gaze. “The coast.”

§

The house sits on a cliff wrapped in the ocean waves that crash into the rocks back and forth, and it looks so beautiful Jaskier wants to cry.

He’s bone-tired, can feel the exhaustion catching up with his body in a way he hasn’t in years. They’ve been roaming the coast for what feels like forever, ever since they set out from Kaer Morhen and descended into the depths of the Continent’s various shore towns. He and Geralt have set foot in more houses, cottages, and crumbling ruins than he can count, entering each one with hope and excitement, only to leave with disappointment setting at the pit of their stomachs. Jaskier’s seen so many crooked chimneys and tilted windows, an immense array of discordant furniture and mismatching patterns, enough to pull even the most resilient of romantics away.

Given the number of houses they’ve seen, Jaskier’s not sure if the fluttering feeling in his gut comes from actual astonishment, or if it’s just the weariness melting his brain into submission — but then he steps in, and every doubt is banished from his mind.

The two-story house and its light-blue walls give way to a lovely interior. They follow the owner through the backdoor —the only way to experience a house for the first time, she tells them— and step into the kitchen. Its yellow walls are framed by lovely dark furniture, the hickory cedar table long and promising. It reminds Jaskier of Vesemir’s oak table at the library as he runs his fingers through the polished wood, already envisioning his notebooks and pens haphazardly thrown across it. The house is full of light, he realizes, the setting sun coming in through the immense windows that stretch across the walls.

“The light in here is gorgeous,” Viola, the owner, says, as if she’s read Jaskier’s mind. “It’s well-lit in the mornings, and you’ll find you can still read well enough in the evenings, without feeling the need to light a candle.”

Geralt and Jaskier follow her into the living room, her billowy dress a beautiful shade of green, stark against her dark olive skin. The room is spacious and inviting, small but comfortable armchairs sitting over the burgundy carpet across the floor. The fireplace is beautiful, with small flowers carved into its corners — its warmth is rather obvious, as some logs are burning down to embers in it.

“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier admires. “It feels… I can’t describe it.”

“At a loss for words, famous poet?” Geralt teases.

“I’m glad you think so, sir,” Viola says with a proud smile on her face. “My partner and I have had the pleasure to call it our home for more than forty years. It’s well-lived, if I dare say so.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Why are you departing from such a lovely residence, if you don’t mind the intrusion?”

Viola waves a hand in dismissal, and starts making her way up the stairs. “We’ve been happy here for many years. These halls hold many great memories.” She sniffs. “Alas, it is time we moved on. My Charlotte and I want to see the world, good sir, before it is much too late for us.”

Jaskier nods, and he can recognize the look on Viola’s face — it’s a mirror of his own, eyes full of longing for what the future may bring, yearning for a chance to tame it.

They walk into the master bedroom, and Geralt and Jaskier share a knowing look. It’s stunning — walls painted in creamy brown with a simple pattern running through them, an imposing four-poster bed owning the room, its blankets looking worn but soft, draping over the chest at the foot of the bed. There’s a dresser with a big mirror on it, and when Jaskier catches a glimpse of their reflection on it, he can feel his chest seize with emotion. Geralt’s wearing comfortable clothes, a simple chemise that might’ve been white to begin with, and a pair of brown breeches, his hair wild from the bracing wind out in the field. He turns around and meets Jaskier’s gaze in the mirror, a small smile on his lips as his hands find Jaskier’s waist, momentarily resting his chin on the bard’s shoulder.

Like this, it’s almost too easy for Jaskier to get lost in Geralt’s amber eyes — the ones that look at him with such patience and devotion, that go soft at the corners when Jaskier’s made a terrible joke, that glint in the moonlight when they’re camping in the woods. It’s almost too easy to stay like that, their souls and bodies intertwined as they look at each other like lovesick fools.

“Ah,” Viola says, and they pull apart, startled. “I know love when I see it, and believe me, this house does, too.”

Jaskier feels himself blush under her attentive gaze.

“I don’t say this to anyone, mind you, but,” she comes closer, as if it were a secret she was sharing, “I’d be glad to know this house would be in good hands, were you both to take it.”

“My lady,” Jaskier says, “I would be most honored, but I fear we must discuss it first—”

“We’ll take it,” Geralt says with certainty, as his hands find Jaskier’s.

“Geralt, are you sure? We can keep looking, love, if you want to, I’m sure there are more options we can look at before—”

Jaskier’s mouth falls closed as Geralt takes his face into his hands.

“I’m sure,” he says slowly, “I love it. And you do too— you smell happy and excited ever since we walked in.”

Jaskier chuckles at that. “Yes, well… it is rather beautiful, and— I think it’s the one, Geralt.”

“It is.” Geralt turns around, meeting Viola’s curious gaze. “We’ll take it.”

“Delightful,” she says with a grin, and puts her hands up before Geralt can continue. “We’ll talk numbers tomorrow, though. You both look exhausted, I wouldn’t want to keep you up with the logistics of it.”

Jaskier flashes her a grateful smile, and bids her farewell as Geralt walks back downstairs with her. He sits on the bed and watches the last rays of sunshine coming in through the window, the way they make the world softer and slower for a minute, painting everything gold. Jaskier lets the sound of the rippling waves crashing into the shore wash over him, the tranquility setting in his bones as he settles against the pillows, still fully clothed and travel-worn, and falls asleep.

§

Jaskier’s warm when he wakes up. He blinks a few times, adjusting to the clarity, and immediately coughs around a mouthful of silver hair. He rolls on his side to find Geralt’s face buried on the pillow, his locks falling around him like a silk curtain, so beautiful and soft-looking, but that almost choked Jaskier to death. Resting his head on his arm, Jaskier reaches out, fingers dusting the Witcher’s cheek, tracing the line of his collarbones down to his shoulder.

One amber eye cracks open.

“Good morning.”

“No.”

Geralt draws the covers up, hiding from the world and Jaskier’s delicate touches. The bard muffles a laugh, lest the Witcher be offended at this ungodly hour, and peels the blankets back from Geralt’s body.

“You’re really spoiled nowadays, you know that? You’ve gone lazy.”

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

“Oh? I’m the very _example_ of discipline, Witcher. Every morning I get up at dawn to feed Roach and fix her tack, and then I make breakfast for you and kiss you goodbye after you’ve dragged yourself out of bed.”

Geralt leans on his elbow, leveling Jaskier with a look, which doesn’t work as it should because his hair is a mess and he’s still pink from sleep. “Whatever fantasy you’ve been indulging in lately, it’s gotten into your head.”

“Hmm. Just telling it like it is.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Let me kiss you good morning, at least. Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm,” Geralt mumbles against his lips. “Perfect.”

Their mouths meet almost lazily, lips slotting perfectly against each other, their breaths slow and cadenced. Jaskier brushes his fingers through Geralt’s hair, gently tugging at the knots, and feels the Witcher’s body fall pliant at the soft touches. His free hand slides down Geralt’s back, sending shivers down his spine, and Geralt rolls them over, so that his chest is resting on top of Jaskier, their bodies pressed flush against each other.

“Oh, good morning, indeed,” Jaskier grins as he innocently traces circles at the bottom of Geralt’s spine, now fully awake. His doublet scratches uncomfortably at his skin, and he squirms. “Also, I can’t believe you didn’t wake me to take my clothes off last night. I’m disgusting.”

Geralt huffs a laugh against his chest. “I tried to, but you threatened to kick me out of bed for waking you and said you couldn’t believe I was such a heartless beast.”

“Oh. That does sound like me, actually. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Geralt claims his mouth with more urgency this time, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth as Jaskier lets out a gasp. Their tongues meet with growing intensity, Jaskier’s hands roaming over Geralt’s body as the Witcher bears his hips down. His skin melts against Jaskier’s fingers, scars shining against the still soft morning light that spills through the windows, the curtains undrawn.

“What do you want, love?” Jaskier pants against Geralt’s lips when they pull back for air. Geralt presses kisses to the corner of his mouth, moving along his cheek and the bridge of his nose, his forehead and the line of his jaw.

“Want you to fuck me,” he rumbles against Jaskier’s neck, and oh, if Jaskier were standing, he’d go weak at the knees from that voice alone.

He places a hand at Geralt’s hip and gently turns him over, with his back pressed against the mattress, as he kisses his way down Geralt’s chest. He looks beautiful, his eyes half-lidded both from sleep and lust, his mouth pink and puffy and curled into a lazy smile. Jaskier’s teeth find one of his nipples, and the Witcher hisses in pleasure.

“Fuck, Jaskier.” He tries to roll his hips up and find some friction, but Jaskier’s hands on his hips are unrelenting. Jaskier presses open-mouthed kisses on his stomach, which is still soft from the nutritious meals they indulged in at Kaer Morhen, and moves lower, one of his hands creeping dangerously close to his hard cock.

Jaskier takes his time, loving the way he can get Geralt to whine and squirm beneath him in seconds — the way his gasps turn into moans and he gets closer and closer to pleading. His fingers dust over the fine hair covering the Witcher’s thick thighs, hovering over his cock but still not touching.

“Jask,” Geralt warns, but his breath is ragged and his cheeks are flushed pink.

Coming back for one last kiss, Jaskier finally wraps his hand around Geralt’s cock, and he feels him sigh in relief. He keeps his pace slow and steady and absolutely maddening, as Geralt lets out desperate little huffs of breath against Jaskier’s cheek.

“Patience, dear.” Jaskier presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat just as he twists his wrist, and Geralt lets out a broken moan. “We’ve got all morning.”

His movements pick up the smallest bit, and his thumb flits over the head of Geralt’s cock, gathering precome and slicking his way down. Geralt’s eyes are squeezed shut, and Jaskier kisses his mouth one last time before moving down his body.

“Jaskier, _fuck_ ,” Geralt mouths when Jaskier takes him in his mouth to the hilt, swallowing around him. He immediately comes back up, running his tongue down the underside of his cock, then swirling his tongue over the tip. Geralt’s hands find his hair, tugging the slightest bit, never commanding — except Jaskier asks him to.

Jaskier hums around him, taking him deeper and bobbing his head.

“Wait, stop, I’m— I’m gonna come,” Geralt breathes. Jaskier pulls off, his mouth gleaming with spit and precome.

“You can come,” Jaskier says, his voice low and husky. “And you can come again when I fuck you— would you like that? To come on my cock?”

Geralt lets out a small moan and nods feverishly, and Jaskier takes him in his mouth again. The tugging at his hair becomes more insistent, and Jaskier quickens his pace until he feels Geralt’s come hit the back of his throat, keeps going until the Witcher is overstimulated and trembling beneath him.

Jaskier presses small kisses to his navel, gently sucking a bruise into the Witcher’s skin. He wishes his body didn’t heal so easily, so that he could admire the splotches of red and purple his mouth leaves behind on Geralt’s skin, a different kind of scar — one born out of love and adoration.

“C’mere,” Geralt murmurs, sated and content.

Jaskier falls into his outstretched arm with a happy sigh, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jaw. “Good?”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, lazily stroking Jaskier’s back through his doublet, fingers finding the laces that pull it together. “Can’t call me a heartless beast now.”

“Guess I can’t,” Jaskier says with a chuckle, sitting up so his doublet falls carelessly to the floor.

Geralt takes his time undressing him, touching his bare skin with devotion, almost reverence — his fingers carefully lift Jaskier’s chemise from where it’s tucked into his trousers, running his hands through his chest once the item has been discarded. Warmth blooms wherever Geralt touches him, and when he gathers Jaskier and settles him on his lap, he can’t help but hide his face in Geralt’s neck.

“Okay?” Geralt murmurs softly, tracing small patterns on Jaskier’s lower back. He shudders at the touch, and nods his assent.

“Never better.”

Geralt presses a kiss to his temple and his fingers find the laces of Jaskier’s breeches, slowly undoing them, his knuckles grazing Jaskier’s hard cock. When Jaskier is, finally, fully naked, Geralt leans back, splaying his hands over the bard’s sunkissed stomach, the planes of his chest and navel, both covered in a trail of dark hair.

Jaskier surges forward and catches his lips in a kiss — a more tentative one, the way he always does when he allows Geralt’s appreciative gaze wash over him. Geralt hums into the kiss, bringing their hips flush as he rocks their erections together, their cocks sliding against each other with nothing but blatant want.

“Okay, okay— dear, if you don’t stop now, I’m gonna come,” Jaskier breathes against Geralt’s cheek. “And I’d much rather fuck you first.”

He reluctantly disentangles himself from Geralt and walks over to where their packs have been rather carelessly thrown on the ground. He can’t remember who had stored their oil, so he just picks up both bags and upends their contents onto the floor.

“Quill, treats for Roach, sci— that’s where my scissors were! Another quill, comb— aha!”

He turns around with a triumphant grin and almost drops the vial of oil when he sees Geralt.

He’s splayed on his back, his silver hair like a halo around him, and he’s almost disinterestedly stroking his cock, toying with the head and reaching for his balls. His chest is gleaming with sweat and the smile he wears as he lets his eyes roam hungrily over Jaskier’s body makes fire run through Jaskier’s veins, and he lets out a broken sound.

Suddenly he’s kneeling between Geralt’s thighs, the oil warming in his fingers as he kisses him harshly. It’s a mess of teeth and tongue and Geralt moans as the first finger breaches him, and he rocks back on Jaskier’s hands, a silent plea for more — and Jaskier would’ve gladly taken it as such, but Geralt’s been trying to be more vocal about his wants and needs, so Jaskier has to ask.

“You want more, dear?”

Geralt nods. “Yes, yes, please.”

Jaskier bites back a smile as he pushes a second finger in, feeling Geralt stretch and clench around them as he scissors them inside him. Jaskier’s cock is leaking and impossibly hard, and he knows he could come from this sight alone, knowing Geralt’s enjoying it as much as he is.

“More, Jask— please.”

Jaskier fucks three fingers in and out, stretching Geralt until a blush creeps up his neck and he’s panting, then withdraws his hand without warning. Geralt lets out a quiet whine at the loss, but pours oil over his hand to slick Jaskier up.

“How do you want me?” He rasps, his voice rough, and Jaskier can feel his stomach sink to the floor with desire.

“Ride me,” Jaskier murmurs, his voice low and heavy with lust. Geralt lets out a low moan and flips them over, towering over Jaskier’s body.

The sun has risen now, warmth and light pouring in from the windows, and Jaskier’s never seen anything more beautiful — the way Geralt’s body moves, taking Jaskier’s cock inch by inch until he’s fully seated, how he stills for a second, breathing in. His skin is golden and it glows in the sunlight coming in from behind him, with the sea as the perfect background as he starts rocking his hips.

Jaskier’s fingers dig into his hips, letting Geralt control the pace. The Witcher rides him in long strokes, pulling out almost entirely and then coming back down hungrily, clenching around him in a way that makes Jaskier moan incoherencies, lost in the daze of pleasure.

“Fuck, you— you feel—” Jaskier pants, and Geralt leans forward to kiss him, letting his cock drag over Jaskier’s stomach as he keeps his unrelenting pace. “ _Geralt_.”

Geralt smiles, mouths at Jaskier’s throat. “Yes?”

He presses his hands against Jaskier’s chest, moving his hips in tight circles as Jaskier starts thrusting up into him, his cock brushing against his prostate every time.

“Fuck, Jask, _fuck_ , I’m—” he breaks off and moans as Jaskier takes his leaking cock in his hand, stroking him as he ruthlessly fucks into him. Geralt comes with a broken wail, spilling on Jaskier’s chest and his own, and Jaskier fucks him through his orgasm, chasing his own.

Geralt kisses him messily, and, despite the soreness in his muscles, rides him hard, until Jaskier’s thrusts stutter and grow shallow.

“Come inside me,” Geralt pleads against his lips, and that’s all it takes.

Jaskier falls over the edge and feels his release fill Geralt up, spilling on his thighs messily. They fall back to the bed together, and Jaskier pulls out as gently as he can manage. Geralt lies beside him, and Jaskier can’t help but admire the way his come is leaking out of the Witcher’s pink hole.

“Enough ogling,” Geralt mumbles into the pillow.

Jaskier lets out a quiet laugh and wraps his arms around Geralt, tangling their legs together. “We’re a mess.”

“Hmm. Good thing we’re keeping the house, otherwise Miss Viola would banish us forever.”

“That she would.”

Jaskier’s fingers follow the lines of Geralt’s face, the ridge of his eyebrows and the rise of his cheekbones, and he lets out a small sigh. He feels like he’s floating, entirely blissed out and warm to his core. He looks around them and sees a room that’s quickly becoming theirs; their packs strewn across the floor and the drawn back curtains, which Jaskier knows was all Geralt’s doing, with his apparent obsession of rising with the sun. His long-forgotten doublet hangs at the foot of the bed, and one of Geralt’s hair ties rests on the bedside table. They’re small things, almost imperceptible to anyone’s eye but his — tokens of their life together, he thinks with a smile.

Geralt makes a small noise against his chest, and he pulls him closer.

“See, this is terribly impractical,” Jaskier muses. “Now I want breakfast in bed, but that means getting up, which means letting go of you, and frankly, this is a quite comfortable situation we find ourselves in.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looks up at him. “I have a better idea.”

§

The sun sits high in the sky, blue and white dancing around the small, round clouds that float on by. There’s a gentle breeze that roams around the garden, ruffling leaves and knocking bees off their seats on the pink blossoms that stand by the windowsill of the kitchen.

The sea is deep and blue and immense before them; the foam washing up on the shore and carrying all sorts of things with it, seashells and small crabs drying on the sun.

There’s a small trail that leads to the beach, hidden behind a row of pines from the curious gaze of inquiring visitors. The water is clear and cool on Jaskier’s skin, where he’s rolled up the sleeves of his trousers to let his feet rest in the sand. They’re sitting on a thin blanket, a spread of bread and pastries from the local bakery laid out for them like a feast.

“These honeycakes are really good,” Jaskier says around a mouthful of them. “Have you tried them?”

Geralt hums, digging into a small strawberry pie. He’s dressed in a white linen shirt —Jaskier’s sleepshirt, the one that got worn with time and is too loose around the shoulders— and a short pair of breeches, the ones he wears in the summer, only around Jaskier. His hair is tied back, to keep it from sticking to his sugary treats, and he’s got a carefree smile on his face. Jaskier reaches for his hand on the sand and treads their pinkies together.

“This was a great idea,” he whispers, looking at the waves come and go. “I love you.”

Geralt smiles and knocks their feet together where they’re laying in the water. “Love you too.”

Jaskier looks at him, then laughs when he spots some strawberry jam on Geralt’s cheek. “You’ve some…”

“Hmm?”

“Here, let me.” He licks his thumb and gently wipes Geralt’s cheek. “Had some jam there.”

Geralt smiles, then presses a chaste kiss to Jaskier’s lips, and it tastes like strawberry and honey and love. “Good thing you found me, then, otherwise I’d be going around with food on my face all day long.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier agrees, tucking himself into Geralt’s side. “Couldn’t have that.”

They eat in silence, just the sound of the waves and seagulls around them, the distant blare of a ship passing by. There’s a song in there, somewhere, but Jaskier tucks it away for a while, simply enjoying the quietude of the moment.

“You cold?” Geralt asks after a while, gently rubbing his palms on Jaskier’s forearms where he feels his flesh rise.

“A little.”

Geralt stands, and offers Jaskier his hand. “Let’s go home, then.”

Jaskier smiles. “Let’s go home,” he echoes, and lets himself be carried.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://julek.tumblr.com).


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